Memoria Page 6

  He walked into the gym. The wind bellowed through cracks in the window frames despite the thick curtains covering them. The light from the locker room fell on part of the boxing ring, a few gym machines and punch bags hanging on chains from the ceiling. To the left of the ring, a closed door led to the coach's room. There, Max kept his trophies and champion's belts. The room was wallpapered with the pictures of his students.

  Hand on the boxing ring rope, Frank walked along the ring. He walked past the punch bag, hit it once or twice and stopped, eyeing the machines with regret. It had been over twenty years since he'd first entered the club's locker room and met his coach.

  The gym grew lighter. Frank turned around. Max closed the door and walked toward him.

  "I've arranged for an expert to come and have a look at this thingy of yours," Max said walking around the ring. "He's on his way. In the meantime," the coach pulled up his track pants and sank onto a gym machine bench, "I need to tell you something about your father, the war and myself."

  Frank's drowsiness was gone. He forgot about his sprained arm and sat on the floor, resting his back against the apron of the boxing ring, his hands on his knees.

  "His name was James Shelby," the coach started, looking Frank in the eye. "He was with Bellville's army. Oh yes, he fought against us, your Dad did. But that's none of your fault. And once the war was over and done with, James took the migrants' side. Campaigning for their rights, he was, and he did it good."

  His words came as a complete surprise. Frank had no idea Dad had been a migrant himself. He'd died from old war wounds a mere month before Frank was born. Max couldn't have met Dad during the war, but his job at General Hopper's HQ reconnaissance unit — training saboteurs and venturing on rather successful missions — allowed him to glimpse into things. Max must have been good otherwise Hopper's men would have never overpowered Bellville's.

  Frank's mother, wary that her husband's past could hurt her boy's future, had one day brought the nine-year-old boy to Max's and told him their story. In return, Max promised that he'd grow a man out of the Shelby boy without letting anyone know whose son he was.

  Max had kept his word. He had a good memory for the war and a lot of respect for his enemies. Frank had started his training. He'd inherited his father's competitive nature and wanted to excel at everything he tried. And excelled he had.

  Once again, his coach removed his glasses, pretending to wipe the already clean lenses. Giving his story the time to sink in.

  "Now the important bit," Max put his glasses back on and continued.

  He didn't sound like himself. Frank had never seen his usually reserved coach so excited. But now the subject was too delicate and too dangerous for comfort: apparently, everyone's duty to visit Memoria hadn't been an immediate post-war decision. It had taken the President ten years to introduce obligatory memory cleanups as he'd decided to put an end to the migrants' unwillingness to reject their past.

  The only category of population allowed to preserve their memories were Hopper's veterans, indispensable in case of a reserve call-up. The rest of the population was offered the easy choice between either preserving their agonizing memories or acquiring citizenship. This was when the color-tagging had come about: blue, green and orange bracelet lights.

  Although migrants were also obliged to wear the bracelets, theirs came with neither citizenship nor electronic banking access. Their bracelets were basic tracking tools. Their rights and movements restricted, migrants were driven together into camps where they were watched like some pre-war criminal convicts had been by means of radio collars.

  " Your father was one of its most vigorous opponents," Max put the glasses back into a leather case, adding, "I have to admit I've learned a lot from him. But it took me years."

  He raised his eyes to Frank. "So, what do you think about it all?"

  "I really can't judge," Frank pressed his fist against his chin. "It was so long ago." He tapped two fingers on his temple. "I just don't get it, sorry. How come that you — a veteran, a sports coach — you speak as if you don't blame the migrants or my father. It's as if you're on their side."

  "I want you to remember one thing," Max stood straight, his shoulders wide, his chin up. He looked down at Frank. "Only our memory can make us human."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "It took me too long to understand a great many things. I don't want you to repeat my mistakes. Had the President made all the veterans have their memories erased there and then, the whole country would have revolted. They would have regarded such a step as betraying them and their ideals. So he'd chosen a soft approach. Those who fought for Hopper got the right to preserve their memories plus the President's support once he was elected. Plus all the aid and other perks that went with it. I have to admit the latter worked best," Max grinned and patted the lifting bench. "I got this little shop thanks to their aid. Because I'm good at this war business... was. All my life I've been training fighters.

  "The rest of the population was of two kinds," he went on. "Those born after the war automatically became citizens by birthright. They were not exempt from Memoria's visits even though they were voluntary. The second were the migrants: these visits were forced onto them if they chose to leave their camps. The only difference between the two is the color code of their bracelet signal. As for the veterans, most of us are either dead or on our last legs." The corners of his eyes curled down in a sad grin. "Our cities have risen from ruins but millions of people still live below the poverty line. One-quarter of all the population is crowded into migrant camps."

  Max's glazed stare scanned the gym. "What did the authorities try to achieve? You tell me, Frank."

  "To bring back order," Frank started and frowned.

  "And? Go on."

  Frank shifted in his seat stretching his numbed muscles and trying to guess what his old coach was driving at.

  "They wanted to allow people to forget about the war. Shift their priorities." He looked up at Max. "Give them a sense of security."

  "Closer, but not quite," Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've always been the competitive kind. You used to work for the government, dealing with migrant camps. Until today, that is."

  "How do you know that? It's classified information."

  "Intelligence work leaves its stamp, you know. I can still analyze media messages. You read a few interviews, compare the facts and draw your conclusions accordingly. Okay, so in the case of the Bronx you've all failed big time. The migrants refused to surrender it to the city. I wonder why?"

  "The Vaccination."

  "Pardon me?"

  "During our DC meeting the migrants' representatives demanded we provide information on the Vaccination program," Frank closed his hands and rested his face in them.

  "And?"

  "It didn't go the way we planned."

  "Which is what?"

  Frank looked up at him.

  "The DC meeting didn't proceed as expected. Things went awry right from the start. The migrant leaders refused to discuss anything until we gave them information on the Vaccination. They demanded its technology from Memoria."

  "You know what it's all about?"

  "No idea. First time I heard about it."

  "Who spoke of the migrants' leaders?"

  "Anna Gautier. When her demand was rejected she told them to go stuff themselves."

  "The Steel Lady has bared her teeth," the coach chuckled. "Sounds like her. She's the one who wears the trousers in their little shop."

  "Exactly! Had she not been head of the Presiding Council, I'm pretty sure the whole migrant situation would have long been resolved. Gautier's well-known for it. She fears no one, she despises authority, and is next to impossible to convince about anything at all."

  Max raised a protesting hand. "She knows her decisions' worth. Shows off her strong will." He paused. "The Presiding Council, what's that about now? Is Gautier in charge of something else?"

  "She is. E
very migrants' camp is managed by a Leading Council. And they in turn are united by the Presiding Council."

  "I see," Max fell silent. "All right. Let's give the Vaccination gig a miss for a while. You tell me what the authorities tried to achieve."

  Frank felt angry with himself for dwelling too much on the DC meeting. He really should keep their conversation in check. He shrugged.

  "You know what the authorities are like. They need to be in control."

  "There!" Max rose. Behind the front door, an arriving car honked twice. Max turned to the door and added, "Still, there are three hundred thousand migrants in the New York camp alone. And you can't control them. Gautier is the only person who can. And if you take the whole country... They are a force to be reckoned with." Max traced ring side and headed for the door.

  Frank nodded mechanically and mumbled, thoughtful,

  "Sure. The migrants are self-sufficient all right. They grow their own vegetables, they even have corn fields to the North of the Bronx. They produce their own electricity, they have wind farms and tidal power. They even sell surplus electricity to the city. Their whole infrastructure aims for New York to depend upon the camp. In this respect, the Bronx is a choice morsel for the authorities. But Gautier will never part with it."

  For the first time, he thought about the lay of the land. Now he understood the reasons behind the concrete fence and the roadblocks surrounding the camp. And the fact that New York still boasted the largest police force in the country. The migrants threatened stability because in actual fact, they were a state unto themselves.

  So those were the reasons behind the government's year-old secret agreement with the Presiding Council.

  Frank was just about to tell his coach about it when Max headed for the front door. He turned the key in the lock, and the door opened, letting in the large shape of a man.

  Chapter Seven. It's a Small World

  He was bearlike, with a broad face, a fat mustache and two powerful paws like kettlebells. Frank immediately recognized the cabman who'd given him a ride from the airport.

  "Come in, quickly," Max grabbed the visitor's hand and pulled him inside. "This is Frank Shelby," he pointed at an open-mouthed Frank. "And this is Barney Douggan," he clapped the bearlike man on the shoulder. "Old friend and partner."

  Max locked the door and gave Barney a light shove, "Come in, don't just stand there. Want some tea?"

  Finally, Barney Douggan came back to reality. He blinked, adjusting his old army jacket with the shoulder mark of the 101 Paratroopers Division. "What's he doing here?"

  The coach turned to him, but Barney didn't give him a chance to reply. "I'm six hours out of the police station. Had to give evidence in the Shelby case. Are you crazy? He's in for a murder and terrorist connections. They can easily trace him by his bracelet. How on earth did he get here?"

  His powerful voice echoed over the gym.

  "Frank is an old friend," Max said calmly and disappeared inside the locker room. "The police are taken care of," they heard from inside. "They removed Frank's bracelet and didn't have a chance to replace it. So they can't trace anyone, I'm afraid."

  He reappeared with the device from Kathleen's parcel in his hands and gave it to Barney. "There, have a look. Tell me what you think about it. You're the expert."

  Frank came closer. Barney took the device and turned it around in his hands. He touched the connector, sniffed at it and went on inspecting the box.

  "What does he do?" Frank whispered.

  "He's a field engineer and liaison officer," Max answered. "Hopper's radioelectronic intelligence group. He's the best. Computers, gadgets, booby traps, the Net, you name it. Just shut it and try to look cool."

  "Will do."

  Barney looked around, mumbled something about the lack of lighting and headed for Max's office. Frank and the coach followed him. Frank tried to get his head around it. How could this burly wrestler of a man — you couldn't, in all honesty, call him old — be a what, a computer whiz? He looked more like a navy Seal, but not a geek.

  Frank took a chair by the door. Max sat at his desk opposite Barney who was inspecting the device under the desk lamp.

  "This is some kind of data carrier. Military hardware."

  "A data carrier," Max pulled his glasses on and took the device.

  "You could say so," Barney glanced at Frank. "But they've worked on it. They've made it lighter, to start with. It feels as if it's steel but it's not. Some kind of composite, I suppose."

  Max placed the device onto the desk.

  "Second, the connector." Barney turned the device to them and poked the connector with a thick finger. "It's been tampered with."

  "Which is good or bad?" Max asked.

  "No idea. All army models used to have two ports for cable connection. This one only has one. My educated guess would be," he slid his fingers along the grooves cut in the edges of the case, "that these are to insert the thing into some kind of docking device. Hermetic, maybe. To use it underwater or-"

  "I see," Max glanced at Frank. "Anything else?"

  "Inside there's a encoding system. Most likely, more than one. You need a key to access it, and the key is normally stored in the Pentagon database. Alternatively, it can be wired into the long-term memory of a submarine, a fighter plane or an aircraft carrier." He shrugged his wrestler's shoulders. "All depends what's in it. What it's for and how important it is. To activate the key you need a password. Even if you bypass the connector and hook the thing up to a regular PC, you still can't read it without the key and the password. You can try and use special password-hacking software but this way it could take you years, with no guarantee of success."

  "We need to read it," Max said.

  "We?" Barney glanced at Frank and chuckled. He tapped the device. "Any idea where the server would be?"

  "I know," Frank said. "It's in Memoria's HQ."

  Barney's face darkened.

  "And how do you suggest we get there? Shall we storm it with machine guns? Or walk in nicely and ask the receptionist to show us to the source station? Is that what you're suggesting?"

  "We do know the source station," Max said. "Don't we, Frank?"

  "We do. It's Kathleen Baker's."

  "How can you be so sure?" Barney chuckled.

  "If she sent it to Frank, then it stands to reason she was the one who recorded it," Max said.

  Barney fingered his mustache as he stared at Frank. Finally, he turned to the coach.

  "You sure you need it? Max? Any idea what you're dragging me into?"

  "You think you can go all the way?" The coach's eyes glistened behind his glasses.

  "Max, I've asked you a question."

  "Like in the good old days?"

  "Answer me."

  The two veterans stared into each other's eyes. The coach leaned toward Barney who rested his elbows on the desk, the device in his hands. Frank wriggled in his chair.

  "I think," Max reached out and took the device from his friend, "that somebody's trying to start a new war."

  Barney slapped his hand on the desk and swore under his breath. Better not ask questions now, Frank thought. These two need to work it out between themselves first.

  "All right," Barney's voice sounded tired. "Tell me what you have."

  "Tell him your story, Frank. Then we'll see what we have between us."

  They didn't have much. Kathleen's murder and her parcel, plus two attacks on Frank: one to get rid of the witness and the other to get hold of the device. That was it. The Memoria trail was apparent but it had to be proven first.

  They couldn't go to the police as whoever it was could make an attempt on Frank's life again. And veterans had no sources of their own in the police department.

  "Where are we expected to gather intelligence? Max?" Barney tapped on the desk. "You know?"

  "I'm thinking about it."

  "How about watching the TV news?" Frank said.

  "I am your TV news, man," Barney pointed his thumb a
t his chest. "The Mayor has declared Code Orange. They're about to introduce a curfew and put up street blocks with strip searches at the subway exits. The airports and the railway stations are already under surveillance since the first mention of a terrorist threat." He pulled up his sleeve and glanced at a massive waterproof watch. "If DC confirms the curfew," Barney pressed two buttons, setting the timer, "then within two hours they'll be able to block all the traffic." He raised his eyes to Frank. "Your picture is plastered all over the TV, and the media are screaming about your involvement in Kathleen Baker's murder. Apparently, she was about to make a media statement when you zapped her just in time."

  "Yeah right," Frank turned to Max. "I forgot to tell you. The place was chock a block full of media. I mean, the house where I live. The lobby was crawling with reporters." He turned back to Barney. "So it was Kathleen who called them?"

  "Well, unless you know another Kathleen Baker in your house with a thing for black lacy underwear."

  Frank jumped off the chair, clenching his fists.

  "You taking the piss? You and Kathleen, you-"

  Barney rose, looking down at him.

  "Wake up, man. It's the talk of the whole of New York City. Reporters can't get enough of your neighbor's stories. She is the star of the show."

  Frank went for him; Max stood between the two.

  "Barney — enough!" He pushed his friend in the chest and slapped Frank's wrist. "Put your hands down! Now!" Max's eyes glistened behind his glasses. "We don't have much time," his voice was harsh. "Sooner or later they'll know you started here, Frank. Either the detectives or those who attacked you, but we need to expect company."

  "You wait!" Barney insisted. "Don't you understand, both of you?"

  "Understand what?" Max turned to him.

  "You think. The murdered woman calls a press conference. Then she takes her clothes off and goes to bed. See what I'm getting at?"

  Frank tried to lunge forward but Max gestured him to stop.

  "Barney has a point. It doesn't add up." He paused, thinking. "We'll talk about it later. We need to act quickly."